


Prisoner

by thirdholmes



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Endeavour Morse Whump, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Morse Whump, Murder, Prison, Serial Killers, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23490499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdholmes/pseuds/thirdholmes
Summary: “She’s under the wise oak.”One phone call. One body. What starts out as a suspected April Fools prank ends up being something far more grotesque than anyone at CID could hope to imagine when a convicted killer and ex-copper contacts Morse from behind bars to send a message to Inspector Thursday, leading Morse and Jakes to the prison in search of answers. What they don’t expect is to be caught up in a trap. And they're the bait.
Comments: 46
Kudos: 107





	1. Wytham

Morse felt as if he’d just barely fallen asleep before he was startled out of it, waking suddenly from a rare pleasant dream that was already slipping rapidly through his fingers. Just moments ago he was sitting under the maple tree that grew behind his childhood home with his mother, the sunlight setting her hair aflame and eyes alight as she told him some ridiculous story about his own antics that he refused to believe. 

And now- 

Well, no use in mourning lost dreams. 

The phone was ringing somewhere in the darkness of his flat and Morse was still too tired to sigh in exasperation, instead transferring what little energy he had to kick his sheets away and swing his legs out of bed, wincing as his feet made contact with the perpetually cold floor. His eyes adjusted quickly and he walked the short distance to where the phone was, picking up the receiver before it could complete its fourth ring. 

“Morse,” he said a bit blearily, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was half worried there was some emergency of sorts, or perhaps there was an incident at the station with Nights and the next words be _“Morning, matey, it’s Jim. Strange. Look, I’m really sorry-”_

Was it even morning? Morse hadn’t checked the time. 

Instead of Strange- or even Jakes, for that matter- a vaguely familiar male voice spoke. 

_“The car park out at Wytham Wood. Follow the trail. She’s under the wise oak.”_

“Sorry, who’s this?” Morse asked, now suddenly awake after hearing those eerily cryptic words. “Who’s ‘she’?” 

_“Goodbye.”_

The line went dead. 

Morse threw the receiver down and reached blindly for the nearest lamp, flicking it on and taking the phone back up. He dialed the operator, aspiring to be as polite as possible to whoever they had working in the middle of the night but also portraying the urgency that was then ignited in him. It took scarcely a moment for them to do a reverse trace on the call, but it yielded no pertinent information. It had come from a phone box on New College Lane. 

_Of course it had._

He hung up the phone and let out a deep breath, running his hands through his hair and turning in a circle before collapsing into the nearest chair with a groan. Perhaps it was nothing more than a bizarre joke played by some drunk college boy with a few coins and a phone directory. Morse briefly entertained that idea for a handful of seconds before shaking his head to himself and sighing again. The voice had been older, too old for a student. 

A professor, then? It was possible. He knew a few who would get too friendly with the bottle here and then, not that he was in a position to cast much judgement on the matter. 

But Morse _swore_ he knew that voice from _somewhere._ Somewhere much more recent than his days at university. 

A pattering at the window caught his attention and he soon noticed that it was coming from above as well, the gentle drone of a rainstorm recognizable to his ears. Morse stood and crossed over to his bed in search of the battered second-hand clock he had on his nightstand. Well, he said second hand, but really the previous tenant had left it on a shelf and Morse simply decided to put it to use. Angling its face toward the light, Morse squinted at the clock hands and almost groaned when he saw how early it was. Three in the morning. He hadn’t been asleep for more than two hours. 

Morse looked closer at the clock and read the date in the smaller squares at the bottom of the face. Upon seeing what the date was he scoffed at his own folly and set it the clock down. 

It was April first. And apparently he was the fool. 

The peculiarity of the phone call was off-putting enough to instill a bit of alertness but it was quickly fading with the realization that it was nothing more than a prank. Morse scratched his neck with a yawn, going over to the door to make sure the bolt was fastened before turning the lamp off and making his way back to the comfort of his bed. His clothes from the day before were strewn at the foot of the covers and rather than hang them up, Morse swept them aside and lay atop his mess of sheets, not caring to pull them up around him. 

Warmer weather had come quickly as April neared and Morse was able to manage without the heating over the past few days. The winter had been cold up until then and he was forced to put his own frugalness aside and make sure the flat was warm enough to keep him from freezing. Now, it was neither cold, nor too warm, but comfortable. 

Morse settled back against the mattress with a sigh and closed his eyes, letting the spring rain shower lull him back to sleep as he hoped his dream would return to him. 

_Bit early in the morning for a prank, though,_ Morse scarcely had time to think before sleep overtook him once again. 

\------

This time, his own alarm woke him, and Morse rose with his usual reluctance, not feeling at all rested. The last few hours had been plagued with a torrent of thoughts on the late night-early morning phone call, those strange words running through his mind ceaselessly. 

_The car park out at Wytham Wood. Follow the trail. She’s under the wise oak._

He was too tired to think it through properly the first time he’d awoken, but now, as Morse readied for what was already destined to be a hectic day at the station, what with all the April Fools mischief, he decided that something was definitely not right. It was worth looking into, but he didn’t know the first place to start. Maybe he’d find a reason to check out the phone box, see if there was anything there. Morse resolved to mention it to Thursday, deciding it was better to err on the side of caution rather than worry about sounding overly concerned. 

Best not let Jakes hear, though. The sergeant already had enough ammunition to taunt Morse without any help. 

When Morse pulled up in front of the Thursday residence that morning it seemed that, for once, the inspector was ahead of schedule, already stepping out of the door before Morse even had time to kill the engine. 

The peony bush Mrs. Thursday had planted a few days ago- as told by her when Morse was sitting at the dining table, waiting for Thursday to finish getting ready to leave- was in full bloom, nourished by the overnight rain. Large bursts of soft pink petals stood out against the general greenery, livening up the small front garden. A pair of blue patterned gloves had been left on one of the stones, Morse could see, and were drenched by the rain. 

Mrs. Thursday gave him a small wave from over her husband’s shoulder and Morse wondered if she could see him return it from where he was in the car, smiling, but a bit confused. Morse was usually early for Thursday and he was certain he’d left at his usual time this morning. If anything, he expected that Thursday would take a bit longer in getting out the door, having to spare a few moments in warning Sam against any foolishness or pranks that he might conspire to commit against his sister over the course of the day. 

Thursday got into the car and gave Morse a once over, frowning. “Alright, Morse? You’re looking peaky.”

Morse half raised an eyebrow at the comment before he looked away, reaching for the gearshift. “I wasn’t going to mention it until we got to the station, sir, but-”

Thursday suddenly stiffened, his eyes hardening into chips of flint, and Morse froze. Despite it being a relatively warm spring day, the temperature seemed to drop the moment the inspector turned to face him. “You got a call, didn’t you.”

The way he said it, it wasn’t a question, but a statement, and Morse stared back at him, his brow creasing. “Sir, how did-?”

“Because I know who called you.” Thursday cut him off briskly, grabbing the speaker of the car’s radio, preparing to call in to the station. “I was afraid this would happen. Did he give you a location?”

_What on earth was happening?_

“A- an oak tree off the trail by the Wytham Wood car park.” Morse said hastily, frowning at Thursday. “Sir, what-” 

But Thursday was already on the radio, barking at the station operator to send officers and Dr. DeBryn to Wytham Wood, his last words shocking Morse as he said: “-and tell them to bring shovels.”

“Sir-” Morse said for the third time, already anticipating being cut off again and trying not to let his frustration mound into something tangible. “What’s happening?” _And why do they need shovels?_

But he already knew the answer to the question before he finished asking it. Whoever had called him hadn’t done so as a prank. 

_She’s under the wise oak._

There was a body buried out at Wytham. 

And somehow Thursday already knew who put it there. 

The inspector was silent for a few moments, hanging up the speaker and falling back against the seat, removing his hat and holding it against his chest for a few moments before setting it back atop his head. The lines on his face seemed to be carved deeper in those few seconds, the shadows under his eyes darker, the set of his jaw firmer as he ground his teeth. 

“I’ll explain on the way,” Thursday promised gruffly, and Morse nodded, taking that as his cue to put the car back into gear and drive. “Wytham. Now.”

“But if you know who did it shouldn’t we-” Morse began to argue, but Thursday was already shaking his head. 

“John Blackwood.” Thursday said once the car reached a traffic light, as if he’d been waiting for them to drive far enough from his house to where the words couldn’t possibly reach it. “Ring any bells with you?”

 _That_ was how he knew the name. 

Morse could see his face so clearly then, dark hair and even darker eyes looking back at him as he shook his hand, ice cold to the touch. 

_‘You must be the new bagman. Morse, was it? DC Blackwood, nice to meet you, lad.’_

The entirety of the case unfolded in Morse’s head as every last detail came flooding to the front of his memory. John Blackwood. He couldn’t forget him. A police officer turned bad, a serial murderer hiding behind his uniform. The media had a field day. 

_DC John Blackwood. The wolf in sheep’s clothing._

“He was one of ours, wasn’t he?” Morse spared a quick glance at Thursday before returning his focus to the road ahead. “A detective constable. He killed four people in late winter of last year, including another officer. We caught Blackwood when he was trying to steal evidence out of the nick.”

“That’s right.” Thursday affirmed, rifling through his pockets for his pipe. “He filed for a transfer to Kidlington a month before the last murder. Must have thought he was being clever but it just made it easier to spot him.”

“You took me off the case.” 

“I did.”

“Why?” Morse asked sharply. Then added, “Sir.”

Morse remembered the case well. While Blackwood had made sure that any leads were near impossible to follow, even stealing evidence that he himself bagged, Morse was the one who figured out it had to have been a copper. Blackwood might not have even been on their list if it hadn't been for him. 

And then, days before the arrest, Morse was removed from the investigation. No explanation. 

Thursday stopped his search for his pipe, fixing his eyes solidly on Morse. “You saw what he did to that constable’s body. Couldn’t even tell the lad’s face. And that car accident with Sergeant Jakes? If Blackwood had been going any faster you and Jakes would’ve gone both through the windscreen. You were lucky to just have one concussion between the two of you. I wasn’t about to let him kill another one of my men.” Thursday swore and thumped his fist against the dash. “I would’ve seen him hang but the law changed. He got off easy.”

Morse almost argued that life in prison didn’t quite fit his definition of ‘easy’, but decided it wasn’t the proper time. 

They drove in silence for much of the journey after that, Thursday no doubt entertaining a cohort of demons in his head and he himself recalled the short reign of Blackwood’s terror that gripped Oxford early last year, and Morse tried not to read too much into the fact that out of anyone, he chose to contact _him._ It made sense after thinking about it. He was Thursday’s bagman after all. What better way to get to the inspector than the constable he’d taken under his wing? 

Still, something about it felt unsettlingly personal. Maybe it was the fact that Morse was in the car when Jakes tried to use their police vehicle as a battering ram against Blackwood, only for the situation to be completely spun on its head. Maybe, somehow, he knew it was Morse who dug out his transfer and put him on the list of suspects. 

There were enough maybes to drive oneself mad. 

“Blackwood spoke to me after the indictment, said that we hadn’t seen the last of him.” Thursday looked haunted as they pulled into the drive leading into the woods. “I always thought there were more bodies than we knew of and Blackwood confirmed this. He told me he would give me a location every year. Blackwood was sentenced April first of last year.”

The trees began to thicken around them as they entered Wytham Wood. Spring had not yet manifested in the growth of lucious green foliage and canopies, but there were small buds of leaves on many of the trees just waiting to emerge. 

“He promised it wouldn’t come to the house.” Thursday said. “The call. I always thought he’d call the station. He crossed a line in contacting you and I intend to let him know.”

“The call didn’t come from the prison, sir,” Morse said, stopping the car alongside the other police vehicles already gathered in the car park, little more than a large square patch of dirt at the mouth of the trails into the woods. “They usually state the prison at the beginning of the call, but there was nothing of the sort. The operator even said it came from a phone box in town.”

“I always thought he had an accomplice, but we could never prove it.” Thursday shook his head, jaw clenched. “Blackwood had a lot of friends in low places. I wouldn't be surprised if he got one of them in on this whole thing to help carry out his little game. Was it Blackwood’s voice?”

“I think so.”

“Probably a recording.” Thursday said thoughtfully. 

Bright stepped out of one of the cars and soon everyone was outside of their vehicles and on their feet, many with shovels in hand, per Thursday’s instructions. Dr. DeBryn had been summoned from his morgue and gave a nod toward Morse in solemn greeting. Not the day anyone thought they’d be having. 

Still, it was a good show of the inspector’s pull in the nick as his request had been followed down to every last bit. 

“Once more unto the breach, then,” Thursday said gruffly, hailing Bright and setting off down the trail. 

A constable moved a vehicle to act as a makeshift barrier at the mouth of the road that led into the woods and Strange brought up the rear of their little group, offering to carry the small shovel that DeBryn had produced from his trunk so the pathologist didn’t have to lug both that and his satchel. Morse held his hand out and felt small, minuscule droplets of rain that were being sent down from the tree branches each time the wind shifted in its course. The air felt like it had the potential for humidity, but retained a certain pleasant coolness from the rain that softened the ground and darkened the trees. As Morse looked upward at the sky through the branches he saw that it was a very white looking sort of grey, faint pepperings of darker clouds lingering about, but nothing too substantial as to suggest it would be raining again any time soon. 

“Wotcher, Morse,” Jakes took a drag from his cigarette and hefted a shovel to rest over his shoulder, changing his pace to walk alongside him. “This another one of your larks, is it?”

“Thursday’s, actually,” Morse stuck his hands in his pockets, looking over at the inspector who was forging ahead and talking animatedly with Bright who was no doubt demanding to be told a very good explanation of why exactly he’d dragged quarter of the nick out to the woods first thing in the morning. “He’s of the mind that there’s a body to be found out here.”

Jakes arched an eyebrow apprehensively. “Where’s that come from, then?”

“John Blackwood.” Morse said, watching the smirk slip right off the sergeant’s face. “I got a call from him last night- rather, one of his accomplices. Apparently he has unfinished business with Inspector Thursday.”

“I’ll be damned.” Jakes muttered around his cigarette, and Morse was suddenly concerned about the man having a lit cigarette and lighter in a forest, but was soothed when a passing breeze sent a hail of water droplets down from the branches they clung to. The woods were damp from the overnight rain. Still, he was relieved when Jakes stubbed it out on a metal signpost and kicked it into a patch of loose gravel. 

“Where’d he say this body was, then?” Jakes asked Morse, his usual traces of mockery or snideness gone and replaced with something much more genuine. “Blackwood.”

“He said it would be under a wise oak.” Morse relayed the phrasing, and Jakes frowned, looking around them. 

“Half these trees here are oaks, Morse.” he pointed out. “Are we supposed to guess or summat?” 

“Wise oak.” Morse repeated, emphasising it a bit more. “It’s symbolic. The tree will stand out against the others, it’ll be accessible from the path, it’ll-”

“It’ll look like that one?” Jakes pointed at a large oak settled not far off the path, just ahead of where Thursday and Bright were walking. It was wide in girth and had a large net of gnarled branches and roots, giving it a fairy-tale type appearance. It was the picture book version of an oak tree, it was borderline obtrusive, and it was unmissable.

“That’s the one.” Morse nodded, feeling the rightness of it, and they both began to run ahead to reach their superiors. “Sir! Sir!”

Thursday and Bright turned around as Morse and Jakes sprinted right off the path, leaping over small brambles and undergrowth to reach the base of the tree. An order was barked and soon enough everyone was following in suit, swarming the tree like the oak itself was under arrest. 

Morse came to a halt just as he was about to trip over one of the expansive roots and noticed a large patch of dirt had been cleared of any brush and topsoil, leaving a dark rectangle displayed for any to see. Roughly five by two feet at the least. 

It was no accident. 

“Someone’s already been here.” Morse announced, gingerly stepping around the mess of roots at his feet and closer to the section of exposed dirt. He was going to have a hell of a time scrubbing off his shoes and trouser cuffs after all of this. 

Jakes hadn’t seen it yet and was lowering his shovel, circling around to Morse. “What makes you say that?”

Morse waved him and Thursday over, gesturing at his discovery. “That’s about the size of a small grave, wouldn’t you say?”

Thursday clapped him on the shoulder firmly, staring at the patch of dirt with a grim expression. “Well done, Morse. Jakes, Prewitt, Strange, start digging.”

“On it, sir.”Jakes shucked his jacket off before sinking his shovel into the rain-softened soil and wordlessly passed the suit piece over to Morse who had a strange urge to throw it in the underbrush. Instead, he folded it up and set it on one of the large roots. Hopefully the tree wouldn’t suffer from nicotine poisoning because of it. 

Strange and the other constable stepped up to do as they were told, two more shovels hitting the ground.

And so it went. 

It took only a handful of minutes for the shallow grave to be dug up with the three of them working at it. The grave wasn’t terribly deep, no more than a foot or so. Constable Prewitt let out a startled yelp as his last shovel of dirt was cast aside and left behind in the pit were the barely visible amalgam of small bones that made up a hand. 

“Take care, gentlemen,” DeBryn cautioned, kneeling on the ground and unpacking the content of his satchel, laying a trowel and several brushes out in front of him. “This is delicate work.”

“By God.” Bright exhaled, looking down at the skeleton that DeBryn was quickly but carefully unearthing before them. 

Thursday set his jaw wordlessly, and Morse could do little other than stare with something distantly akin to horror pooling in his gut. 

After a moment it became too much to look at as more bones were revealed and the dark, hollow orbs of eye sockets appeared where the skull was. Morse felt vaguely nauseous and made his way toward the back of the group, finding Jakes leaving against another tree, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows as a shaking hand attempted to fish a cigarette from the package. 

The sergeant’s brow was covered in sweat and there was dirt all up his arms, but he didn’t seem to notice or mind, not even when the bark of the tree left a mark on his white shirt. His hair was coming loose of its neatly styled manner, falling messily across his brow. 

Morse tried his best not to stare, but he’d never seen Jakes so unraveled like this. It was just as if he’d grown a third eye or a second head. 

Jakes caught him looking and couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by it. “I hate skeletons, Morse. I bloody hate them. They terrify me.”

His thumbs skidded off his lighter as he tried to light it, and Morse reached out to take it from him, slipping it into his own pocket. Even with the rain soaked ground, the last thing they needed was Jakes dropping his lighter and setting a small fire to the forest, or himself. “Best not be doing that right now, Jakes.”

Jakes sighed and held his unlit cigarette, giving it a considerate look before returning it to the pack. “Do you ever have nightmares, Morse?”

 _All the bloody time,_ he could have snapped. Possessed by some force, Morse nodded honestly, and Jakes sighed once again, looking almost... _relieved._

“I used to get these nightmares when I was a kid. I must’ve heard someone say the phrase ‘skeletons in the closet’ because for months and months all I could dream about was this bloody skeleton jumping out from my closet.” Jakes drew in a breath, closing his eyes. “I hate them. I really do.”

Morse didn’t know what else to say to that other than, “You don’t have to look.”

“Yeah, and what’ll everyone think?” Jakes countered sharply. He scanned Morse up and down critically, sneering, but it was weak. “I can only imagine what’s going on in your head. Now you’ve got some of your own dirt against me, good for you.”

Morse couldn’t grace that with a response and Jakes seemed to realise what he said, dragging his forearm across his face to wipe away some of the sweat. 

“Jesus. I’m sorry, Morse.” 

“No harm done.” Morse shrugged it off easily, looking back at the group behind him. He’d heard worse come from the sergeant, but the apology was something new entirely. “Listen, you just stay over here, alright? I’m sure they’ll call if you’re needed.”

“Right.” Jakes nodded. 

Morse gave him one final look before heading back toward the grave, mastering his own discomfort at the sight. He couldn’t fool himself into thinking it was some prop, so he simply gritted his teeth and tried not to pay too much attention to those empty eyes. 

“I’ll have to call an anthropologist from the Home Office to make a positive identification,” DeBryn stood up and swept a hand across the legs of his trousers, brushing away any dirt as he looked down at the intact skeleton that lay in front of the officers. “But from the shape of the pelvis I feel safe in saying that our victim is female.”

They knew as much already from the phone call. _She._ That’s what Blackwood said. 

Thursday stepped forward and knelt at the side of the pit, reaching down for something that no one else had quite spotted yet. 

“It’s Cordelia MacGovern.” Thursday declared grimly after a moment, holding up an object he fished from the shallow grave. 

Morse moved to take a closer look and saw that it was a cheap golden locket, dirty and tarnished. There were no initials on it, no indicating marks, but when Thursday opened it he could see the photo of a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. 

“Bella Jones.” Thursday said with a self-affirming nod. “Cordelia’s best friend. It was Jones that reported her missing. Gave the locket as part of the description.” 

Bright removed his hat and held it to his chest as a well intentioned gesture of respect, and there was a long stretch of silence as each man stared down at the body laid out in the shallow grave. A missing person had been recovered. A victim they could only speculate about until then. 

Blackwood had been telling the truth and now their worst suspicions were confirmed. 

There were more bodies to be found. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Magdalen
> 
> Any feedback on this first chapter would be greatly appreciated! This story is going to take a bit of a different turn that my usual case fics and might end up looking more similar to Elegy (although the goal is to have this be considerably shorter). I also wrote this in a very short amount of time so I'm slightly worried about that but I think it'll be fine. Right?


	2. Magdalen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update on a previous issue for those of you who have read Chiaroscuro: I found my tumblr password!! Check me out at "endeavourson" for sporadic Endeavour content, and covers, fancasts, and manips for these fics.

They regrouped at the station, leaving a handful of officers with DeBryn so the pathologist could finalize their exhumation of Cordelia MacGovern’s skeleton and transport her to the mortuary. The parents would have to be notified once complete identification was made, but there was no telling when the Home Office pathologist that specialised in anthropology would be coming up from London to help. For now, they had the locket and Thursday’s adamant insistence. It was enough to operate off of for the time being. 

Morse stood in front of the window, observing the darkening clouds with some trepidation, clouds that were continuing to cluster and grow like massive pieces of lint sticking together in the sky. A small draught snuck in and ghosted over his hands that rested on the sill and he noticed with slight passiveness that there was a fissure in the glass seal holding one of the panes in. 

The clouds rapidly proceeded to darken, and Strange went around switching on various desk lamps to combat the encroaching dimness from the concealment of the usual natural light. 

It was an old ship, their station. Resolute and unfaltering, but there would always come a point where repairs were in order. Just last week they’d had to bunk down with Robbery as the CID was repainted, the walls now a light, detergent-like green as opposed to the darker, near emerald tone. Morse had been the first to notice that there was a certain lack of foresight in planning the renovation as they had elected to rearrange the file cabinets _after_ the new paint had gone on, leaving patches of the original evergreen behind like semi-permanent shadows. 

Someone had made a halfhearted attempt at bringing a minor decorative aspect into the bullpen and put a potted plant atop one of the shelves. It had been quickly forgotten about and by the time Morse saw Strange attempting to revive it by pouring a pencil cup full of tap water into the soil, half the leaves had gone brown and brittle. Now, it was beyond dead, simply waiting for its existence to be remembered once again, if only long enough to throw it out with the rubbish at the end of the week. 

Still, there was something almost charming about the department’s current state of ruggedness. A charm that would cease to be once the window seal caved and permitted a flood on the sill, that was. 

_April showers._ Morse thought wryly. There was some truth in it after all. 

_April showers bring… sadistic serial murders out to play._

“Cowley to Morse, do you copy?” Jakes snapped his fingers much too close to his ear and Morse spun, the sergeant leaping away before Morse could accidentally strike him. He gave Morse an apprehensive look, raising an eyebrow as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Someone’s jumpy today.”

“That makes two of us.” Morse found himself retorting reflexively, already aware of the low blow that it was. 

Jakes’ expression could have withered any plant left alive in the room. “Come on. We’ve finished setting up.”

Spread out before everyone on the glass dividing wall were the faces and bodies of John Blackwood’s victims, the confirmed four relegated to the far left side, three civilians and one fellow officer. Copies of portraits arranged like a grim memorial. 

They had nearly been added to that list. E. Morse and Peter Jakes. 

He saw Jakes’ jaw twitch as his eyes settled on the photo of DC Paul Findlay, the man who’d commonly found himself working as Blackwood’s partner. Blackwood had placed a false call that brought the officer out in the middle of the night to respond to a scene, only for Blackwood to be there waiting for him. As far as DeBryn could make out, Blackwood had shot Findlay through the windscreen- a non fatal wound- before dragging the constable out of the car and beating his head into the kerb. His skull was fractured in three different places, one eye socket caved in completely as the bullet that finally put him out of his misery shattered whatever bone there was around it. 

Blackwood’s wife, as it turned out, had been cheating on him with Findlay. The affair ended once she discovered she was pregnant with Blackwood’s child, but he’d sought his revenge anyway. When they realised Blackwood was the killer she was whisked away to safety and made the decision to fully move out of the county. 

It was the week before Blackwood’s trial that Thursday delivered the news. “It’s a boy. A healthy baby boy.”

That was the last anyone heard of Mrs. Blackwood and her son. 

Populating the rest of the board were six missing persons cases that had occurred in and around the Oxford area slightly before and during Blackwood’s kills. Morse remembered the late nights he spent at the station, frigid evenings as the radiator went in and out over the course of the late hours, the way the following day’s sunlight on the snow was too sharp for his weary eyes. Hours spent searching through report after report, trying to find some connection to Blackwood. The initial list had been eleven missing people. Over the past year, five of them ended up being resolved, the people either recovered, found, or discovered dead by other means. 

That still left six. And that morning, they had been able to plausibly confirm one. Cordelia MacGovern’s portrait hung in a limbo between the two groups, awaiting further judgement. Judgement to come from DeBryn’s office, whenever that would be. 

Morse knew the same questions were resting heavily on all of their minds. _How many more had Blackwood really killed? How many of the remaining five? Were there more?_

There was only one person that held that answer definitively. 

Well, two, counting Blackwood’s accomplice. 

“We’ll need to pay him a visit at the prison, sir,” Thursday said decisively, observing the board over Bright’s shoulder. “He was true to his word. It’s possible we could get him to open up even more, see if he’s willing to divulge information on the other victims.”

“In exchange for what, Thursday?” Bright crossed his arms, giving the photographs and documents another cursory glance before wheeling around to face the inspector. “That man has killed four people, including one of our own. There will be a price for his information, be assured of that. And however steep it may be, we will not pay it.”

“I doubt the families of the victims will share that sentiment.” Morse said bitterly, adding, “Sir.” as those beady eyes descended upon him now. 

“Morse is right, sir,” Jakes surprised him by joining in, looking away from the board, hands delving into his pockets. “We owe it to the families to at least try.”

Thursday drew in a deep breath, shaking his head and paced a few feet away, taking his hat into his hands. “We’d just be playing into his game, sergeant. This could be what he wants. He wanted our attention and he’s got it.”

Morse’s brow creased a little at that and he folded his hands behind his back, looking down at the floor in thought. Had it really been _their_ attention that Blackwood was vying for? The attention of the entire CID? If that were true, he would have called the station directly, just as Thursday thought, would have made it known to every officer that even behind bars his victims continued to appear. 

But instead, he’d done something else. The message went to Morse. He hardly knew the man before the investigation began, they shared no connection, nothing of significance. Only that Blackwood had forced his and Jakes’ car off the road and into a ditch one snowy afternoon last February. Only that Morse had picked his name out of the files, but there was no way he could know that. 

His earlier analysis made the most sense. Morse was merely the messenger. The best means to reach Inspector Thursday. Thursday, who made the arrest, who so solidly testified against Blackwood during the trial, who remained even after the indictment for Blackwood to utter those fateful words to. A promise that it was far from over. 

“Then we don’t play his game.” Morse said simply, looking back up from the ground. “Or at least we change the rules.”

“And how would we go about that, Morse?” Thursday frowned darkly, clearly prepared to rebuke any sort of idea he was about to present. His intentions were good, but it was clear he and Bright were of the same mind. Blackwood would not get what he wanted. What he had yet to understand was that Morse agreed. 

“It’s you he wants, sir,” he said with certainty, facing the inspector. “You were there for the indictment. It was _you_ he spoke to. The only reason I was contacted was to get through to _you._ If he’s expecting anyone to come visit him, it’s the man who arrested him. But I know the case as well as anyone. Send me instead.”

Morse knew before he even said that final sentence that it would draw a strong reaction from Thursday, and he was proven correct as the inspector’s expression turned positively thunderous. He opened his mouth to speak but Bright cut him off, sharply raising a hand to silence him, clearly entertaining the proposition.

“Now just hold on, Thursday, it’s not such a bad idea,” Bright mused, studying Morse intently while his words were directed at the older man. “It’s clear we can’t send you, but it has to be someone with intimate knowledge of the case. Constable Morse is on his radar just enough to where he could still be willing to cooperate.”

That settled it. There was no way for Thursday to argue with Bright once the superintendent’s mind was made up, and it was clear he’d settled on what he now adopted as his own plan for confronting Blackwood despite the fact that it was Morse who suggested it in the first place. 

“Magdalen is a Category A prison, he’ll not be going in alone.” Thursday finally said firmly, the smallest bit of protest he could get away with. 

“Quite right.” Bright agreed. 

Morse huffed. “Fine, then send me with Strange.” 

The constable looked up at his name and shook his head apologetically. “No can do, matey, I’ve got court this afternoon.”

“And besides,” Thursday cut in. “If we’re going off who has the most knowledge of the case then Sergeant Jakes would be more fitting, don’t you think?” 

The way Thursday said it led Morse to believe that it was the final say on the matter. Jakes, oddly, remained quiet, not presenting as much protest as Morse expected he would. He’d been rather quiet since Wytham, residual embarrassment and subsequent irritation from his and Morse’s recent exchanges no doubt lingering. The sergeant seemed to overcome it in the next few moments, however, passively shrugging his shoulders and straightening his posture to its usual assertive stance. It was so clearly a facade to Morse that it made him wonder just how much of the time all of it was an act. 

“What are we standing around for, then?” Jakes arched a dark eyebrow. “Let’s go rattle this monster’s cage.”

\------

The drive out to HM Prison Magdalen was fraught with tension and nerves from all occupants of the vehicle, and Morse wished he hadn’t been given this break from the wheel, relegated to the back seat as Jakes drove and Thursday occupied the passenger seat, staring intently at the road ahead, not uttering a word. At least while driving, Morse could temper down his thoughts and instill some focus on the road, but now he had no such distraction. 

It had eventually been settled that Thursday would join them and inspect the prison’s records in order to take note of Blackwood’s visitors and his behaviour within the prison over the past year in hopes of gaining more understanding as to the man’s character, and, just maybe, uncover the identity of the accomplice. 

Magdalen would be the first Category A prison Morse ever visited, not that he’d ever had much cause to venture out to any prisons, save for a small handful of times where crimes or cold cases led them to need to speak to a prisoner. Magdalen was the place where the high risk offenders went, the murderers and violent criminals, the ones who posed absolute danger to people and society at large. 

The ones that could never be allowed to escape. 

The prison itself was already imposing on the outside, high concrete walls obscuring much of the facility from view, that too surrounded by a belt of barbed wire fences, paired with the prison walls and inner fences to create layer upon layer of inescapable confines. It was old enough to where some of the buildings retained a gothic sense to their structure, but had clearly benefited from more modern attempts at reconstruction, certain wings and buildings looking more like those solid blocks of stone and metal that tenements so often resembled now. It was cold, foreboding, and expressionless. 

Which- Morse presumed- was the entire purpose. 

Bright called ahead to arrange for the visit, which meant that a handful of guards and one of the various prison governors were waiting to grant them entry and- naturally- search them, once they’d entered. 

As Morse emptied his pockets into one of the three bins laid out for him, Jakes, and Thursday, his fingers skimmed something cold in his trouser pocket. At first his fingers recoiled from the unfamiliar object, then, closing around it, he withdrew Jakes’ silver lighter. He’d never returned it after taking it from him at Wytham, and Morse decided it must have been a testament to how truly rattled Jakes was that he hadn’t asked for it back.

“Jakes,” Morse said, handing the lighter over to its owner. The sergeant gave Morse an odd look before noticing what was in his hand and all but snatched the lighter away, almost as if he hadn’t wanted anyone else to witness the exchange. 

“Cheers.” Jakes replied briskly, throwing it with the lot in his tray. A pack of French cigarettes, a particularly gaudy looking wristwatch with a band made of more metal than there ought to be, his warrant card, and now, the lighter. Thursday claimed the keys to the Jag, making them his responsibility, along with his various other items. 

As a guard looked through Morse’s affects he gave a dubious frown and glanced up at the constable a bit too suspiciously. “You’ve got nothing else on you?”

Morse had made a thorough effort to empty his pockets and was not surprised in the least to come up with only five items- four, now that Jakes had his lighter back. In his bin were his notebook, pen, wallet, and warrant card. An admittedly meagre sum in comparison to what had been turned out of his colleagues. 

“That’s the lot of it,” Morse assured him with a quick smile, but prisons didn’t become prisons by taking people on their word. When the time came for them to be patted down he was sure it took much longer for him to pass than Thursday who had been given little more than a cursory sweep. Jakes, at least, seemed to find it humorous, hiding his laugh as he looked down at the ground. 

The checkered pattern of the linoleum beneath their feet gave Morse the impression of a chess board, the three of them becoming pieces to be moved around. A physical embodiment of John Blackwood’s game. _Jakes to E5. Thursday to C2. Morse to E4._ Sending them running around the board with only the barest inkling of what his goal was. Their own play was simple. _Save the king. Don’t give Blackwood what he wants._

That was why, once their effects were returned to them, they split up to their respective tasks, Morse and Jakes following one guard to the visiting room while another guard and the governor escorted Thursday to Records in the administrative building. The inspector faltered briefly before parting ways with them, almost like he was reconsidering the whole affair. But it was a bit too late to go back now.

Morse knew that Thursday was harbouring uncertainty about letting them be alone with Blackwood- well, as alone as they could be in a guarded prison- but something about the look on his face struck a nerve, and Morse felt the first prickle of dread unfurl in his chest. 

The unease didn’t seem warranted, but, considering what had happened last time Jakes and Morse faced off against him on their own, maybe it was. 

\------

_[February of last year]_

_“We’ve been made,” Jakes said rather obviously as they followed John Blackwood’s car eastward out of Headington, the landscape gradually turning more and more rural around them as houses thinned and copses of skeletal trees thickened into stretches of wood._

_“Really, do you think so?” Morse replied drily, rubbing his hands together in order to chafe some warmth into them. The heating in the car was unreliable at best and now, driving through a snowstorm, it was more sorely missed than ever. While it was showing signs of finally cooperating and heating up, it wasn’t quite there yet, and the chill was inspiring more sarcasm in Morse than either of them needed. “Do you think it’s the Jag that gave us away or the fact that he can probably see our faces in his rearview mirror?”_

_“If he can see anything through his back window in this weather then I’d say the man deserves to get away.” Jakes’ hand went to the windscreen wiper control, testing it again, but being told the same thing it had been indicating for the past three times with its resistance to move any further. Even at the highest setting, it was barely keeping the snow at bay, and they were essentially driving half blind._

_They’d been tailing DC Blackwood’s vehicle for the better part of five miles, surveiling him as discreetly as they could. It was only yesterday that Paul Findlay’s body’d been found, brutalized beyond recognition, only yesterday that the pieces of the puzzle began to slide into place. The following morning, just hours ago, Blackwood had come into the station and taken the evidence recovered from the Findlay scene- bullet casings, personal effects, and his warrant card from down in forensics which had been found shredded next to Findlay’s body, covered in prints that didn’t belong to him._

_At least they thought it was Blackwood who’d taken them. The constable was gone from the station before someone noticed that the evidence had been signed out in Paul Findlay’s name._

_Either dead men walked through snowstorms, or they had a thief in their midst._

_Morse had been suspicious of Blackwood for the past few days, but with only the transfer request to go off of, he knew it would be a long shot for anyone to side with him until they gained something more substantial. It was only then, after the theft, that they received a shove in the right direction and patrols were set out to search for Blackwood. By some miracle, Jakes and Morse found him on the route to his home in Headington, identifying him by the tag on the car he was assigned to._

_“He must be some kind of an idiot,” Jakes had smirked. “Thinking he can just run home like this.”_

_But, as it turned out, Blackwood was not an idiot. They soon found themselves following him through a maze of snow covered neighbourhoods before eventually being taken out of Headington in the direction of Forest Hill. He’d been unsuccessful at shaking them, but now Morse wondered what was to happen now that it was clear they were following him. Depending on how full Blackwood’s tank was, this could go on for quite a bit._

_“He’s toying with us.” Morse said pointlessly, watching the white, snow laden landscape blur past them. When Jakes offered no response, his fingers only tightening around the wheel, Morse heaved a sigh, his breath briefly warming the area in front of his face, and he reached for the radio, taking the receiver in hand. “This is Detective Constable Morse to information room, over.”_

_That finally drew a response from Jakes and he tore his eyes off the road for a brief moment to glare at Morse. “What are you doing?”_

_“What we should’ve done before he led us out this far!” Morse snapped, and Jakes huffed, turning back to the road._

_There was a brief crackle of static before the radio spat out a garbled, “Information room, go ahead DC Morse.”_

_“Update on DC Blackwood, we’re pursuing him eastbound out of Headington on the A40,” Morse relayed, squinting as he looked out the windscreen to assure himself that the black form of the man’s car was indeed still just in front of them. “Requesting additional support. He seems to know we’re onto him. Over.”_

_“Copy that, DC Morse, we’ll alert all units in your area. Over.”_

_“Out.”_

_Jakes scoffed. “‘All units in our area’? There’s nothing out here but snow!”_

_‘Which is exactly why we need backup,’ Morse nearly retorted before his eyes widened and he cried out, “Jakes, look out!”_

_Blackwood had stopped ahead of them and Jakes slammed on the brakes. Hard. Tyres squealed and slid on the snow covered ground and Morse scrambled for something to hold onto as they flew into a spin, coming to a stop just barely before sliding off the road._

_Jakes swore loudly and began spinning the wheel rapidly as he struggled to right the vehicle, but Blackwood had already gotten the advantage he needed and began speeding off again._

_“Well if you want to play rough-” Jakes growled, and pressed down on the accelerator, sending them hurtling after him._

_Morse had a white knuckled grip on the side of the door and he looked between Blackwood’s vehicle and Jakes, unsure of which driver was more insane. They were gaining speed much too quickly, Jakes clearly taking much less care than Blackwood. The constable ahead of them was going just fast enough to make an effort, but was clearly restraining himself lest he catch the snow wrong and spin out of control._

_Jakes, on the other hand, was throwing caution into the snow choked wind, and the angry humming of the engine seemed to reverberate into Morse’s bones, infusing them with anxiety._

_There was every chance that Blackwood was goading Jakes on, that he knew the sergeant would respond in such a hotheaded manner. While Morse hadn’t much cause to interact with him, Jakes and Blackwood often had drinks together with a group of other officers. They ran in the same circle._

_Know thine enemy. Know his tricks. Know you can lure him into doing something as dangerously foolish as-_

_Within moments Morse realised that they were almost bumper to bumper with Blackwood’s vehicle, and he cast a warning look toward Jakes, his eyes wide with panic. “Jakes, slow down, you’re going to hit him!”_

_“What do you think I’m trying to do?!” Jakes growled, and he slammed the accelerator down to the floor, and the engine let out a wail as they pitched forward and slammed into Blackwood. The hit rocked their own car and sent Morse falling into the back of his seat, his hand ripped from its hold on the door. Metal crunched as the bumper caved and a fracture split one of Blackwood’s tail lights, but it didn’t seem to do anything to dissuade him._

_“ARE YOU MAD?!” Morse shouted at Jakes in furious disbelief, and his fear and anger got the better of him as he reached threateningly for the wheel. He was half afraid he would jerk the car off balance, but more concerned about the intentions of the sergeant beside him. “You can’t just ram him off the road!”_

_“Can’t I?” Jakes fended him off far too easily, pushing him back into his seat with a firm hand on his chest. “Just stay back, Morse, I can handle this! I’ll get him!”_

_“Jakes, now really isn’t the time for you to try and prove anything-”_

_“Just shut up and let me drive!” Jakes shot out, and surged forward once again, ramming the car into the one ahead of them. One of the lights fully shattered and glass scattered in the wind._

_“You’re not driving, you’re committing suicide!” Morse protested, but it fell on ignorant ears._

_Blackwood suddenly swerved into the right lane and reduced his speed just enough to drop back beside them. The manoeuvre brought their cars side by side, running parallel to each other down the snow covered road, and Jakes was forced to slow down to accommodate. Morse barely caught a glimpse of the Blackwood's face through the window, blurred by snow, but he was almost certain he saw him smile._

_“What the hell-” Jakes started, but he was unable able to finish it._

_John Blackwood violently jerked the wheel to the left and swung his car into the side of Morse and Jakes’, and there was no regaining control this time._

_Not as they flew off the road and down a snowy embankment, skidding into a tree with a deafening crash, the world quickly consumed by white and cold._

_Then, nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Blackwood
> 
> The initial chapter count I had for this fic in my planning is 5-7 so let's see if I can stay within the desired range and not stretch it out into a whole thing for once.  
> Why is it so much harder to write short fics than long ones???? I just- I can't- but I'm trying. *breathes* everything is going to be just fine.


	3. Blackwood

As far as Morse could tell from their limited view of the facility, it wasn’t so different from other prisons from a visual standpoint. Jakes and the guard- who hadn’t even made an effort to introduce himself- kept pace with each other, walking side by side in the corridor, leaving Morse to lag just slightly behind. The cinder block walls were painted an unassuming white, paired with a dark green that accented the lower half and reached up to coat doors and metal fixtures. 

The corridor felt like a separate vein from the rooms they passed, and Morse could scarcely work out what the purpose of each was. They made a turn before they could get much further along and headed down a smaller stretch. It wasn’t long before the guard stopped in front of a thick metal door with a narrow window set into the centre of it, searching through the ring of keys at his belt to unlock the door. 

“Mr. Blackwood’s waiting for you in here.” the guard said as he held two keys side by side, squinting to read the small engravings before letting the erroneous one fall back to join the others. Holding the key aloft, he pointed at the two officers, his face impassive, if only slightly stern. “You’ll have one armed guard watching him inside with you- that’ll be Mr. Strickland, he’s just through the glass right there- and I’ll be waiting outside if there’s any complications he can’t handle. If there’s any signs of undue tension or we believe any party is in duress or in danger of harm, the interview will be terminated without protest. Understood?”   


Four against one. Jakes seemed to like those odds because he nodded, shuffling to the side to allow for the guard to finally unlock the door. 

The keys jangled and clanked as the guard moved and the door gave a moaning creak as the lock disengaged and was pulled open just enough for Jakes to lead the way in, Morse close behind. The door closed with a heavy sound, and the outer bolt was thrown back into place before the lock clicked, sealing them in. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Blackwood looked up when the two detectives neared, something akin to surprise flickering across his face before he expertly masked it with disgust, his lips curling with distaste. His cuffed hands curled into a fist atop the table he was sitting at, positioned in the back centre of the small, cell-like visitation room, the promised guard standing just behind him in the corner beside a telephone hanging from the wall. 

Oddly enough, Blackwood looked almost exactly the same as Morse remembered him. Dark hair combed back from his once tanned forehead, now pale from the lack of sun and surplus of artificial lights. But his eyes remained all too memorable, black like inkwells, so black that you would have to be incredibly close to him in order to realise they were actually brown. Only no one in their right mind would ever be that close. Those eyes had been black for months, a year. And then, one hellish winter day, as hands seized him and dragged him from the wreck of the car, Morse looked and saw their true colour. A rich, cold brown. Like the soil at the bottom of his own freshly dug grave. 

“So this is what dear Fred decided to send me. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.” the prisoner gave them both a once over and, unimpressed, scoffed and shook his head, turning his attention back to the table where he was tracing a line of scratches with his forefinger. “Go fetch the old man. I’m not interested in talking to children.”

“Neither are we, so maybe you could stop acting like one and cut to the chase, Blackwood.” Jakes said smoothly, taking a seat across from him and pushing the other chair toward Morse, indicating he did the same. The gesture just made him want to continue standing, but Morse set the indignity aside and grabbed the back of the chair to pull it out more before taking his seat next to Jakes and across from the prisoner. 

“Good to see you too, Pete.” Blackwood gave Jakes a long hard stare before his eyes settled on Morse, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Perhaps it was a smile. Or as close to one as he could get. “I remember you. You’re Fred’s boy. Only one in the nick he gives a damn about.” 

“I’m not-” Morse started to protest, but Blackwood heard all he needed. 

“Yes, you are.” Blackwood’s teeth flashed as he grinned, sharp and canine. “And if you haven’t realised that by now then you’re a fool. Either that, or there’s something truly broken in you. Now come on, where’s the guv?”

“He’s not your guv any more, now is he?” Jakes pointed out, and Morse felt a flicker of satisfaction as Blackwood’s face crumpled back into scowl. “And you can save your breath, he’s not here, John. He’s not coming.”

“Oh, he’s here alright.”

Jakes leaned back into the seat as much as the stiff backed metal chair would allow, crossing his arms. “It’s just us.”

“I couldn’t hear the Jag’s keys in your pocket when you came in. Why might that be? Because there aren’t any, are there?” Blackwood sneered, his face contorting around the ugly expression, cruelly handsome features warped and twisted. “You know I hate liars. I killed the liars in my life. The traitors and the cheats.”

“Did Cordelia MacGovern lie to you?” Morse inquired, taking advantage of the shift to get to the matter at hand. “Is that why you killed her?”

Blackwood’s focus turned back to Morse once again, an appraising look smoothing his features back out into an image of calm. “Well done, Morse. Sweet Cordelia was a grass, you see. She witnessed one of my drug transactions up at the colleges, came into the station to report it. Problem was, I was the officer she spoke to.”

“So you murdered her.” Jakes stared.

Blackwood shrugged. “It paid well. I wasn’t about to let an operation like that get ruined by some silly girl. So yes, I killed her.”

The way he said it so freely, so flippantly, turned Morse’s stomach, and he suddenly wished he hadn’t asked. This was a human life they were talking about, a young woman who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a decent person who saw something wrong and tried to do the right thing. She could have lived, if only it was someone else’s desk she was directed to. Morse or Jakes, Beckett, even, but instead, it was Blackwood. 

Something as small as that. 

_ “Some silly girl.” _

Anger stirred in Morse’s chest but he suppressed it, knowing it would do him no good to lose his temper. 

“I’m glad I didn’t kill you, though,” Blackwood raised his hands and pointed both index fingers at Morse. He realised that the prisoner was miming the shape of a gun, thumbs cocking an invisible hammer. “No, this wouldn’t have been very interesting, otherwise. You know why my friend called you, don’t you?”

“To prove to Inspector Thursday that you could.” Morse replied curtly. Concise and straight to the point, just the way Blackwood would want to hear it. 

“Precisely.” the prisoner grinned again. “See, you, young Morse, are the old man’s pressure point. Oh, there’s his family, yes, but they’re protected. They don’t share your life, your dangers. You’re like an open nerve, exposed to the world. Vulnerable.”

Jakes sat forward in his seat, painting a look of boredom onto his face to show Blackwood that he was quite tired of this winding path. “We’re not here for you to play with, we’re here for answers. We want the names of your victims. All of them.” 

Blackwood heaved a dramatic sigh, copying Jakes and leaning forward. “And what will you offer me in return, oh sergeant, my sergeant?” 

“What do you want?”

Morse whipped his head to the side to stare at Jakes. Neither of them were in any position to meet whatever demand Blackwood might have. He’d opened a door that should’ve stayed shut. 

“My family.” Blackwood shrugged as if it was the simplest request in the world. “I want visitation. Once a month. I want to see my wife and child.”

“Out of the question.” Jakes scoffed, shaking his head. “Your wife wants nothing to do with you.”

“A man has a right to see his child, Jakes.”

_ Maybe you lost that right when you murdered four- now five people and threatened to kill your wife and unborn son,  _ Morse thought angrily as his hands curled around the edge of his seat, the metal digging painfully into his palms. Those words so venomously thrown at Thursday were the last Morse heard from Blackwood as he was carried down to the cells.  _ “I’ll find them and I’ll kill them too! How’d you like to see that, guv?” _

There was no paternal love that somehow blossomed over the course of a year. Morse could tell just by looking in his eyes. He knew that absence, knew what was missing, like it was a well traced cutout. He knew what it looked like to stare into the eyes of a father who had nothing but contempt for the people he should have loved. That was all Morse knew for the greater part of his adolescence. Years and years of that absence. 

All Blackwood had in his heart was hatred. His son was just an object to him. Something he couldn’t have, so he wanted it. 

Of course they wouldn’t comply. 

“We’re leaving.” Jakes declared sharply. “Come on, Morse. He’s all mouth and no trousers.”

“David Mathison!” Blackwood spat, causing Jakes to stop as he rose halfway out of his seat. 

The photograph of a middle aged man with a scar above his eyebrow flashed through Morse’s mind as he saw it placed among the five on the board in the CID. 

_ David Mathison.  _ Five unknown turned to four. 

Five kills turned to six. 

The sergeant gave Morse a sly look as if to say,  _ See? It’s under control.  _ before turning back to Blackwood, raising his eyebrow. “What about him?”

“He’s pushing up tomatoes buried under the vegetables in his own allotment.” Blackwood supplied with an unpleasant tone. “The lot should still be owned by his wife, last I knew.”

Morse wrote the information down in his notebook and tucked it back into his pocket, giving Blackwood an inquisitive look that was nowhere near as intimidating as he hoped it would be. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”  _ Four more names you want to give us, perhaps? _

“Not until I get what I want.” 

“Alright, then,” Jakes stood and pushed his chair in, walking to the door and smartly rapping his knuckles on the glass for the guard to unlock it. Morse frowned at Blackwood, unsettled by the calculating glint in his eyes as he watched Jakes retreating. It was that which finally propelled him into motion, standing from the table and following Jakes to the door. The sooner they got out of that room, the better. 

“Actually, there was one other thing-”

The scrape of metal and shout from the guard behind them was all the warning they were offered as Blackwood swung his chair into Morse’s back, sending him to the ground. 

Pain was the first thing he registered. 

Chaos was a close second. 

\------

_ It was the pain and cold that woke him.  _

_ Morse couldn’t have been unconscious for longer than a few moments. He blinked his eyes sluggishly, rolling his head back until it hit the seat, waiting for his vision to settle. A harsh, biting wind forced itself into the car, gaining entry from the smashed remains of the passenger window, the glass of which had relocated itself into Morse’s lap and face. The cold air aggravated the small cuts on the side of his face and Morse grit his teeth, hissing through them and tasting blood as he swallowed. There was an awful throbbing in his skull, and his ears rang shrilly, like all the sopranos in his choir and then some had collectively conspired to try and deafen him.  _

_ Then, a voice cut through the dense veil of noise, and Morse was able to focus on it, that same word over and over, his name- “...orse. Morse. Morse!”  _

_ Each word felt like a new pulse of pain. Hands shook him roughly and Morse tried to bat them away but moving his left arm caused a fresh flash of pain that lanced all the way up his shoulder and stole his breath, drawing a sharp gasp from him. It didn’t feel broken but Morse’s wouldn’t doubt that he’d jarred it somehow. His ribs protested as he tried to sit up, and he forced himself to draw in a deep breath, no matter how painful it was. The door was caved inward, Morse’s side of the car curved around the tree they’d struck. The thickness of the snow had slowed their descent from the road and by some miracle they hadn’t flipped, but an impact was an impact.  _

_ No wonder he felt like death warmed over. Well, frozen over, to be put more aptly.  _

_ “Morse!” Jakes hissed again, and Morse finally looked over at the sergeant, mortified to see his blood smeared temple, deep crimson staining the snow that had blown into the car, violent red coating his brow, trailing down his cheekbones and tapering off at the sharp edge of his jaw.  _

_ ‘Head wounds bleed profusely,’ Morse dimly remembered DeBryn informing them once, and it settled him somewhat.  _

_ There were a million different insults he could fling at Jakes for his recklessness, but the wounded, frightened expression on his face stopped anything that might have been forthcoming. All the anger leached away with what remaining warmth he had and all Morse felt was- pity. Jakes looked wrecked, as worried as he’d ever seen him.  _

_ “Morse, are you alright? Can you hear me? Morse-” _

_ “Stop talking.” Morse ground out, closing his eyes and heaving a ragged breath before shivering, wrapping his arms around his aching side, hoping to preserve some warmth.  _

_ “I know you’re upset, I’m sorry-” _

_ “No.” Morse shook his head, immediately regretting the movement. “No. Head hurts. Stop talking.” _

_ “Oh.” Jakes understood quickly, and he looked away, eyes settling on the radio. Morse was grateful he’d called for backup. He lacked the clairvoyance that would have had him requesting medical to join them, but a running car with heat would be good enough. The embankment they’d slide down was short, but steep, and the car was sideways against a tree. There would be no getting the vehicle out on their own.  _

_ Morse knew what their choices were. Remain in the car, the only source of shelter for a good mile or two, and wait for backup to find them, or try and trek back to Headington’s suburbia in a blizzard and run into someone on the way. He shivered again, biting his teeth together to keep them from chattering. He knew which he’d rather. And it wasn’t the latter.  _

_ Suddenly, a gunshot sounded and the back window shattered, a new burst of freezing air and snow blowing into the vehicle.  _

_ Blackwood hadn’t left.  _

_ He’d stayed to finish them off.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Desperado


	4. Desperado

The impact of the strong metal chair against Morse’s back was enough to send him to the ground with a shout of pain and surprise, caught off guard by the suddenness of the attack. His ribs and spine groaned in agony and Morse barely had time to curl in on himself before a firm kick landed in his stomach, drawing another cry from him. 

“Morse!” Jakes was already in motion, flinging himself at Blackwood just as the guard- Strickland- seized the prisoner around the waist in an attempt to secure him. 

Blackwood, however, was not going to go down without a fight, and as he threw his head back, the audible crack of the guard’s nose breaking filled the small room. It was a sick, snapping sound, like a brittle twig breaking under someone’s boot, and Morse suddenly felt nauseous. As he struggled to rise to his feet, every aching bone in his body encouraged him to stay on the ground, but it simply wasn’t an option. Not when it came to Blackwood. 

Weakness meant certain death. 

Blood spilled onto the concrete floor, stark red against the pale grey stone, and Strickland stumbled back, releasing Blackwood out of instinct- against his better judgement. 

“Open the bloody door!” Jakes bellowed, throwing a punch at Blackwood and just barely grazing his jaw as the man dodged and ducked beneath his arm. By the time Morse got to his feet, Blackwood had succeeded in throwing his cuffed hands over Jakes’ head from behind, pulling the chain taut against the sergeant’s neck and choking him. 

His pale face flushed red within moments and an awful gagging sound came from his throat as he struggled to pull the chain away, to gain some relief from the oppressive obstruction of air. But Blackwood simply laughed, ignoring the kicks from Jakes’s flailing heels that battered his shins. On the other side of the door, Morse could see the guard still fumbling with his keys again, taking far too much time. The kind of time Jakes didn’t have.

“Where are your clever jibes now, eh, sergeant?” Blackwood snarled, sharp teeth flashing malevolently. “Your life in my hands once again.”

Jakes’ eyes widened and he threw his remaining strength into fighting back against his opponent, clawing blindly at Blackwood’s face, kicking at his legs, but none of it worked to deter him. The lack of air was taking its toll rather quickly. 

Without thinking, Morse grabbed the fallen chair and swung it at Blackwood’s side with a broken yell, and while he lacked the force that Blackwood’s strength offered, it was enough for the pull on the chain to slacken and for Jakes to fall to the ground, nothing left to keep him upright. He landed heavily on his knees, hands flying to his own throat as he gasped for air, massaging the abraded skin. 

“Hands above your head, Blackwood!” Strickland shouted, his voice muffled by blood, and Morse saw the guard leveling his gun at Blackwood’s back. The clicking of the bullet sliding into the chamber hardly registered against the rush of blood going through Morse’s head. The adrenaline had made him shaky, and the chair fell from Morse’s trembling hands, clattering to the ground in front of him. “Now!”

The door finally swung open and the second guard burst into the room, his weapon raised. 

Morse felt his shoulders sink with relief and he sucked in a sharp, painful breath, his ribs agitated by the effort. He looked at the impossible situation Blackwood was caught in, frozen between two armed guards who were ready to shoot him. 

_Checkmate,_ he thought with some satisfaction, but for some reason it still felt like the room was still holding its breath. 

Jakes sat up against the opposite wall, his long legs stretched out awkwardly as he leaned back into the only form of support he had with him and Morse separated by the stalemate between them. An angry red line chafed across Jakes’ throat, but other than that he seemed relatively unharmed. He looked like he could fling some choice words at Blackwood, the expression on his face borderline murderous, but he kept quiet, silent and watching. 

The prisoner turned to look at Strickland over his shoulder before facing the guard in front of him, a slow smile spreading across his face, angry red lines raked across his cheeks from Jakes’ nails twisting around the expression. 

“Go on, then,” Blackwood nodded at the guard, an awful glint in his eyes. “You know what you have to do.”

The explosive sound of the gunshot tore the tension in the room apart and Morse instinctively flinched away, hands flying to his head. A body dropped, hitting the floor, and Morse expected to hear Blackwood’s cries, curses, anything, but no sounds followed. 

Nothing but a sick moan from Jakes and someone’s steadily growing laughter. 

Morse looked up and his hands fell to his side, limbs numb from the shock of the sight. 

Blackwood was still standing, broad shoulders shaking with laughter as he gazed down at the body of one of the guards. Strickland. A bloodstain blossomed just below the collar of his uniform, blood pooling from the exit wound on his back, spreading across the cold ground, his eyes blank and unexpressive. A fresh wave of nausea rolled over Morse and he couldn’t bear to look at the sight of the body any longer for fear of getting sick. 

The other guard, the one who’d unlocked the door, was lowering his gun, staring at what he’d done. Not in shock, not in horror, but with a grim resolution. 

“Mate,” Jakes breathed, his voice raw. His attempt at appealing to the guard only drew his attention and Jakes quickly rose to his feet, falling back against the wall as the guard trained his weapon on him. “Mate, listen, it’s alright, it was an accident, yeah? You just- you missed-”

“He didn’t miss, Jakes,” Morse surprised himself by being able to speak, watching with abject horror as the guard pushed the door shut and jammed a chair under the handle, blocking them in, all the while making sure that his gun didn’t waver from pointing at one of the two officers. 

Blackwood strolled over to the fallen guard and plucked a small set of keys from his pocket, unlocking his cuffs. “Right again, Morse. I’m sure you’re at least slightly familiar with my friend here, you two shared a riveting phone call early this morning.” 

“No-” Morse said weakly, refusing to believe how quickly the tables had turned against them. But all the evidence was there, right in front of them. Blackwood’s accomplice, his confidante, was this prison guard. The guard who shot and killed his colleague, the guard who had them trapped in this room. 

Trapped with Blackwood. 

“Oh, but I’m afraid so.” Blackwood drawled, letting the cuffs fall to the ground as he massaged his wrists. In one swift motion he bent down and snatched Strickland’s gun from his outstretched fingers. “Well, you know what they say. All good things must come to an end, and- oh look, the bullet’s already in the chamber. How convenient.” 

Without any form of warning, Blackwood raised the gun and promptly shot his accomplice in the centre of his chest. 

Jakes dove for the guard’s gun but Blackwood struck out with the butt of his weapon, slamming it down between Jakes’ shoulders. He hit the ground with a groan and feebly reached out for the gun one last time and Blackwood responded by stomping his foot down on Jakes’ hand, twisting. Jakes howled in pain and Blackwood stepped away with a haughty laugh, grabbing the gun and sticking it in his waistband. 

“So impertinent,” Blackwood mused, kicking the guard’s body and rolling it with his foot until it came to rest alongside Strickland’s in the back corner. “Be a good lad and go stand by DC Morse over there. I like to have my ducks in a row, so to speak.”

“Bite me.”

“No, but how about I shoot you instead?”

Jakes cradled his injured hand and glared at Blackwood, but begrudgingly obeyed and crossed the small space to stand by Morse, looking him up and down for outward signs of injury. Morse knew his face was bleeding, he could feel the scrape on the side of his face from when he was knocked to the rough floor, but what really hurt were his ribs, both from the chair and the solid kicking. Not likely broken, but bruised to some extent. 

Still, the concern from him was unusual. Not altogether unfamiliar, just- _rare._

“Well, this is a very simple situation we find ourselves in, gentlemen,” Blackwood dragged a chair over to the opposite wall and sat atop the back of it, feet resting on the flat surface of the seat as one gun dangled lazily from his hand. Drops of blood stained his light blue uniform shirt, dark red spots soaked into the cotton. “Someone will have heard those gunshots, and any moment now someone is going to come to that door and try and open it. Naturally, they won’t be able to enter. Then, that phone over there-” he gestured with his gun to the black telephone hanging up in the back corner. “Is going to ring, and one of two governors is going to be on the other end. The prison guv, or dear old Thursday. Either way, I _will_ be talking to Thursday, and I’m going to make an offer. And, in exchange for me getting what I want, you get your lives.”

“You’re mad,” Morse spat, leaning heavily against the wall and clutching at his ribs with his arm, the ache suddenly too much to handle. “You know what they told us- told _you-_ first day on the force.”

All new recruits were given a thorough tour of the jails, both in and out of the nick, and the same warning was issued to all of them. _If you’re taken hostage, we won’t negotiate with the prisoners. You might have to prepare to die._

And that was where they found themselves now. There would be attempts to save them, certainly, but under no circumstances would Blackwood ever actually get what he wanted. 

“Well remembered,” Blackwood praised, his smile undying. “See, I thought we could put that to the test here. After all, the old guv’s nothing but a bleeding heart. You’re not dead men just yet. I say let’s give him a chance, eh?”

The door rattled as someone outside attempted to open it, shouts sounding from beyond the small window. Blackwood let out a bored sigh, aiming the gun and firing pointlessly at the door. The bullet embedded itself in the thick metal and it seemed to deter whoever was on the other side because the rattling stopped. 

There was a minute of deafening silence. 

Then, the phone rang. A shrill, ringing sound that set Morse’s frayed nerves on edge.

Blackwood made a face of mock surprise, then smirked as if to say _I told you so,_ strolling over to the telephone and plucking the receiver off the hook, pressing it to his ear. 

Everything seemed too deliberate, too exact, that Morse was beginning to wonder with sick, dreadful realisation that in trying to subvert Blackwood’s plans they’d unwittingly played into them. Was it possible that Blackwood _knew_ that in targeting Thursday they would undoubtedly try and keep him away? That someone else would come instead? Thursday could have showed up and Blackwood would have tried to make a deal, but then what? He wouldn’t have taken him hostage. Not the man that he needed to be outside and able to pull the strings to meet his demands. 

They were Blackwood’s bargaining chips against Thursday, and they’d fallen right into his hands. 

\------

Thursday and the prison governor had been in the records room when a frantic looking guard had run into the room, face flushed and out of breath as he gasped out his message. 

_Shots fired in one of the visiting rooms. Blackwood’s._

There was no putting a name to the insurmountable sense of dread that filled him, but there was no time for that now, not when he’d left Morse and Jakes with one of the most diabolically clever and dangerous men Thursday had encountered in his career. Jakes had once cracked a joke, saying that they’d be in certain trouble if Morse ever decided to turn his brains to the ‘other side’ so to speak. It had gotten a good laugh out of them, but not Thursday, and certainly not Morse himself. 

Because they didn’t need to imagine that scenario. Blackwood was the embodiment of it. It was never a good day when a policeman went bad, but someone with Blackwood’s shrewdness? He would never be on the same level as their Morse, that was for certain, his intelligence directed more toward common cunning and deception than Morse’s wit and cleverness, but it was enough to tip the scales just a bit with the darkness on Blackwood’ side. 

Time felt irrelevant as Thursday rushed to reach his officers, but he could get no further than the door, barely catching a glimpse of Jakes with Morse ever so slightly behind him, propped heavily against the wall, clearly in no small amount of pain. The paleness of the room seemed to leach all colour from their features, giving a sickly hue to the surroundings, and Thursday’s stomach gave a turn as he spotted the large streak of blood arching across the floor, bodies of two guards piled together against another wall. 

And then, of course, there was Blackwood himself. 

Even stripped from his usual well cut suits and placed in prison garb, John Blackwood seemed in control as ever, and as he glanced over at the small window set in the door, he met Thursday’s eyes, silent laughter gleaming in them. A challenge. 

_Come get your boys, guv._

_Before they’re next._

A guard rattled the door in frustration as the lock turned but the metal refused to budge, hindered from opening. Blackwood raised a gun- no doubt one procured from one of the dead guards- and shot at the door. The bullets had no chance of passing through the thick metal but there was no point in continuing to try and force the door open. Not with a threat like that. 

Not with Morse and Jakes in danger of being shot at next. 

He had to get to Blackwood one way or another, try and communicate, work things out. The only reason he hadn’t killed Morse or Jakes yet was because he _needed_ them. 

To get Thursday’s attention. 

_Well you’ve got it now, you bastard,_ Thursday growled. 

Thursday spotted a telephone in the back of the small cell of a room and turned to the stony faced governor behind him, expression urgent. 

“I need a phone. Now.”

The man nodded. “This way.”

\------

“Hello, Inspector,” Blackwood said with a drawling grin as he answered the phone, keeping his gun trained on the two officers. He held the phone away from his ear, allowing for Thursday’s voice to reach Morse and Jakes as well, wanting to share in the moment.

_“You let them go now, John. There’s no way this ends well for you.”_

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, guv,” Blackwood laughed once, cold and clear. “Dear Morse here has informed me that you won’t be negotiating with me for their release. I expected as much, to be quite frank, but I think there’s something you _can_ offer me. One that won’t sully your good conscience.”

_“And what might that be?”_

“Well your life for theirs, what else? I want a trade.” 

_“If you kill two police officers you’ll never see the light of day, Blackwood.”_

Blackwood scoffed haughtily. “I’m already in prison for life, your testimony made sure of that. And the rope is off the table now. What more can they do to me? I truly do have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, do. As a matter of fact, I’m looking right at them.”

Jakes stared in shocked silence and Morse forced himself to speak, unsure of where the words came from, spitting out, “Don’t listen to him, sir!”

The outburst seemed to amuse Blackwood who raised an eyebrow and spoke into the phone, laughter in his words. “Did you hear that, Fred? Your boy here’s ready to die for you. How sweet.”

_“Leave him out of this, Blackwood. This is between you and me.”_

“Oh, no, I rather think it’s between all of us,” Blackwood mused. “See, this is about revenge. You took my family, Fred. So I think I’ll take yours. Well, as close as I can get. I could’ve had my friend go after sweet Joan and Sam but it would’ve lacked that personal touch. No, this is much better. My bargain is simple. Your life or theirs.” His piercing eyes turned on Jakes. “Your sergeant is being rather quiet on this matter. I dare say he wants to live. What say you, Sergeant Jakes?”

Jakes looked positively murderous. “I say go to hell, John.” 

“I gave Jakes here a chance to cooperate,” Blackwood informed Thursday, smirking insufferably. “I thought that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t go through with this whole plan. Not if he was willing to support my request to see my family. But you know how that ended.”

“Your wife had a stillbirth, you bastard son of a bitch!” Jakes shouted angrily, his face flushed a dark pink hue as he spat out the sharp words, flinging them at the man like daggers. The only weapons he had left. 

Morse gaped at Jakes in disbelief for a moment, masking it quickly before Blackwood noticed his shock. _What the hell was he thinking?_

No, he _wasn’t_ thinking. 

It was that winter road all over again. 

And it was not going to end well. 

“Jakes, don’t-” Morse cautioned, but the words had already been spoken. Blackwood’s attention was fixed on Jakes, half questioning, half amused. 

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

_“Blackwood, leave him be-”_

“With all due respect, old man, do shut up.” Blackwood let the phone drop, dangling from the cord and striking against the back wall as he advanced a few steps toward them, gun trained right at Jakes’ chest. The click of the bullet entering the chamber seemed to resonate throughout the small space. “Go on. Say it.”

No going back now. Jakes clenched his fists, bringing his shoulders back to stand straight. _Facade,_ Morse’s mind supplied unhelpfully. “She had a stillbirth. Your kid’s dead, John.”

_‘You know I hate liars. I killed the liars in my life. The traitors and the cheats.’_

Morse could only hope that it wasn’t all that transparent of a lie, or that Blackwood would write it off as the insult that it was. For Jakes’ sake. 

To the sergeant’s credit, he had a passable poker face that had Blackwood studying him intently, searching for anything that would betray Jakes’ words. He didn’t seem to find the same chink in his armour as Morse did, but looked like he remained wholly unconvinced. The muzzle of the gun dug into Jakes’ chest, pressing just above his heart. 

“Is he lying?” Blackwood demanded, fixing Morse with his stare. “Is he?”

Jakes glanced sideways at Morse, and for a brief second Morse saw the flicker of fear in his eyes. It was an impossible move. If Morse told the truth, it would out Jakes as a liar. But if Morse lied for him- well, Blackwood had made his stance on that quite clear. 

If this was chess, Morse was desperado. A piece that knew it was going to be captured, so he had to sacrifice himself for the highest goal. He had to make it count. There was nothing else for him to do but swallow and take a measured breath, meeting Blackwood’s eyes and hoping that the racing of his heartbeat was only audible to his own ears.

“He’s telling the truth.” 

Jakes’ shoulders sagged in relief. It was almost offending, that he’d had his doubts about Morse. _Not the time._

Blackwood nodded and took a step back, lowering the weapon. “Right, then.”

Then, without warning, he raised it and fired. 

\------

_The approaching footsteps hit a new chord of fear within Morse and he held his breath, not daring to breathe as icy shards of glass continued to fall from the shattered window, forced clear by the howling wind._

_Blackwood had remained to finish them off._

_“Fuck.” Jakes said numbly, rapidly coming to the same realisation as Morse. His frozen fingers fumbled with the buttons of his coat, delving inside to draw his own weapon. The only one they had. Footsteps sounded on the snow just outside and Morse could only barely make out Blackwood’s dark coat, gloved hands moving to reload his gun._

_Five rounds left. Two officers._

_Before Jakes could figure out just how to fire back, the door was wrenched open and Blackwood grabbed the front of Jakes’ coat, hauling him bodily from the vehicle. The gun fell from Jakes’ hand, clattering uselessly to the floorboard._

_“No.” Morse tried to shout as he feebly reached out for Jakes, but it came out as nothing short of a hoarse rasp. “No!”_

_“JOHN- John, you don’t have to do this, mate-”_

_A groan muffled by snow, and Morse could only assume that Blackwood had struck or kicked him. “Shut up, Pete. You shouldn’t have followed me. Now stay down before I make you.”_

_Morse’s entire body protested as he forced himself to move, legs tangling awkwardly as he crawled over into the driver’s seat, reaching down and closing his fingers around Jakes’ fallen gun, pulling his sleeve down to conceal it._

_“Just where do you think you’re going, lad?” Blackwood sneered, and Morse gasped in pain as the man grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him from the car, their face just inches from each other. Morse could feel the sickening warmth of his breath ghosting across his face and the taste of bile replaced that of blood. There were those eyes. Cold, dark, and dangerous. “Come on, Morsey, I thought you were smarter than that.”_

_Good. Let him think Morse was trying to escape. He didn’t know about the gun._

_And both of his hands were fisted into Morse’s jacket, which meant-_

_Which meant Blackwood didn’t have his gun. It was holstered._

_“I think I’ll kill this one first,” Blackwood spun Morse around to face Jakes who was struggling to prop himself up amid the snow. He pressed a strong arm across the front of Morse’s chest, the other grabbing his hair to yank his head back. “Or maybe it’ll just be him. What’ll the guv think of that, sergeant? I’ll leave you alive to tell him just how badly you failed. You lost me, and you lost his golden haired bagman. Actually, I could just take him with me. As insurance. You never know-”_

_Blackwood dropped his hand from Morse’s head and, thinking he was reaching for his gun, Morse threw himself into motion, bringing his arms up and fumbling for the trigger of Jakes’ borrowed gun._

_“Morse-!” Jakes cried out in warning, as if to stop him, but it was too late._

_Morse let out a desperate shout as he fired blindly behind him. Blackwood fell away and Morse crumpled to the ground, dropping the gun as his hands flew to cover his ears, the ringing splitting his skull in half._

_Somewhere behind him, Morse could hear Blackwood’s agonized yells, and he rolled over to see the man in the same position, hands clasped over his ears, face tight with pain. There was no obvious sign of injury, but a trickle of blood was spilling from his right ear, speckling the pristine snow before it was quickly buried by the unceasing sweep of the storm. Morse may not have shot him, but he’d definitely burst Blackwood’s eardrum._

_Jakes scrambled to his feet and dropped to the ground beside Morse, eyes raking over him. “Are you hurt?”_

_“‘M fine.” Morse breathed, shuddering as the cold worked its way into his bones. “Get his gun.”_

_He turned to find Blackwood but the man was gone, his gun left behind in the snow. The constable was running up the embankment, one hand pressed to his bleeding ear as he scrambled to escape._

_Backup arrived minutes later, the ferocity of the fury and worry on Fred Thursday’s face enough to rival the temperament of any winter storm._

_Jakes and Morse were safe._

_But Blackwood was long gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Checkmate
> 
> I hope everyone is staying happy, healthy, and safe out there. Sending lots of love and support to you


	5. Checkmate

They weren’t so lucky this time around. 

Thursday’s shouting into the phone yielded no response from anyone on the other end. He hardly even knew what he was saying until he forced himself to focus on his own words. 

He was agreeing to the trade. 

But Blackwood wasn’t hearing it. 

The sound of the gunshot roared through the telephone and Thursday nearly dropped the receiver, his heart stuttering to a halt as Jakes’ cry froze his blood in his veins, chilling him right down to the bone. 

_ “MORSE!” _

\------

Jakes had flinched away from the gunshot, bracing himself for the pain of the bullet tearing through his flesh, only for nothing to come. For a brief moment he wondered if it was a blank, or if Blackwood had just fired at the wall in warning. 

But then he looked at Morse, those wide blue eyes staring back at him in wordless shock. 

_ No. Please no.  _ Jakes thought nauseously, forcing himself to look down at Morse’s side where his hands were bunched in the fabric of his jacket, crimson blood spilling through his fingers. 

Blackwood didn’t shoot Jakes. He didn’t shoot the wall. 

_ He shot Morse.  _

Time slowed down for a moment and was now rapidly catching up to them, Blackwood stepping back and lowering the gun, his damage done. Morse- Morse stumbling- Morse  _ falling- _

“MORSE!” Jakes surged forward to catch him as Morse’s eyes slid up into his head and his legs gave out, easing the younger man to the floor while desperately trying to ignore the pained cries that spilled from his rapidly paling lips. “No! NO!”

He set Morse down on the ground as gently as he could, hands scrabbling against Morse’s pale, bloodied ones where they were pressed weakly against his side, a rich blossom of blood spreading across his shirt and jacket some distance under his ribs. Morse stared up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy and unfocused from the pain, a single tear beading at the corners. Jakes shucked off his own coat and hastily pressed it against the wound, drawing a fresh cry from Morse that had the constable trying to curl in on himself, away from Jakes, away from the pain. 

_ “Hurts,” _ Morse hissed, drawing in a shaky breath, and Jakes felt his shoulders sink with relief, glad he wasn’t too far gone yet. 

“Well of course it hurts, last I checked getting shot wasn’t a walk in the park, Morse.” Jakes tried for a joke, succeeding in drawing out an exasperated huff alongside the barest twitch of a smile before Morse’s pale face was drawn into another agonised grimace. “Come on, you’ll be alright, just hold tight.”

He added some more pressure to the wound and Morse’s back arched sharply, lips parted in a soundless cry. Guilt stabbed through Jakes’ chest but he couldn’t allow it to get the better of him, not right now. Still, he caused Morse enough pain already, and now he was only adding to it by trying to help. But there was nothing else he could do. Jakes was just as helpless as Morse, only he didn’t have a bullet in him. 

Blackwood had shot him in a spot that would hopefully be easy to recover from, it was near enough to his side, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful as hell. Jakes was no expert, he had no idea what the bullet had done inside, and if the bleeding didn’t stop-

_ No.  _ He couldn’t think like that. 

“Morse, it’s going to be fine, you’re going to be just fine, alright?” Jakes found himself rambling the platitudes with a painful desperation in his voice as he fought to gain Morse’s attention among the pained cries. He looked up at Blackwood who was studying the scene with a certain amusement, the gun hanging casually from his fingers. 

“Why him?!” Jakes spat viciously, staring at Blackwood and wishing he could put that gun right between the man’s eyes. “It was me!”

_ It should have been me!  _ he nearly shouted, and a sob built in his throat as a wave of guilt slammed into him, threatening to drag him into an inescapable riptide. 

“You made him lie for you. That’s hardly my fault.” Blackwood shrugged apathetically, reaching for the fallen phone. His dark eyes glimmered with smugness, no doubt proud of himself. “You should have told the truth, Sergeant Jakes.” 

“You _ bastard!”  _ Jakes roared, blood rushing past his ears in a deafening stream, and he would have lunged at Blackwood but his impulsivity had cost them enough already. Now and before. 

Thursday was shouting something incomprehensible over the phone, Blackwood’s grin widening with each second, and Jakes could only assume the worst, that he was  _ agreeing  _ to Blackwood’s terms. 

There had to be a way around it. A way no one had to die. 

A way to get Morse out of this godforsaken place and to a  _ bloody hospital.  _

But the only one in the room with any sense of how that would happen was bleeding out on the ground in front of him. 

Morse made a choked sound as he groaned, eyes fluttering weakly as he moved, shifting a bit to reach his coat pocket with the arm that wasn’t pressing Jakes’ jacket against his side. With shaking, trembling fingers, Morse withdrew his pen from his pocket, pressing it firmly into Jakes’ hand. His hands were warm and slick with blood and Jakes’ stomach gave a slight turn but he ignored it as best as he could, focusing on the metal fountain pen in his grasp. 

“Use it.” Morse said with some difficulty, trying to keep his voice down even thought Blackwood’s attention was more on the phone than whatever they could be saying. “I can distract him.”

“Use it?” Jakes hissed incredulously, staring down at the pen. “What am I supposed to do, write him to death? And what do you mean ‘distract him’, are you mad?”

Morse scoffed lightly and winced. “Stab him. Just wait-”

“No, Morse, what-”

“Your son!” Morse called out to Blackwood hoarsely, his face pinched tight with pain as he tried to angle himself toward the man, drawing his attention. Jakes pushed his shoulders back to keep him from rising, forcing him back to the ground. He tucked the pen up his sleeve, only half understanding whatever Morse’s plan was, but he had to trust him. Any plan was better than no plan. 

It was clever, that was for certain. Jakes’ outburst about Blackwood’s child had derailed him the first time. Now Morse was using that to their advantage. The one weakness the man seemed to have. And Morse knew just how to play it against him. 

Maybe they weren’t completely out of the game just yet. 

Blackwood turned, letting the phone drop from the cord once again. “What about my son?”

“I can tell you-” Morse grit his teeth in pain, his voice growing fainter with each word. One look at him and Jakes knew that he was in no fit state to be carrying out whatever harebrained scheme he had going on. The man was pale from blood loss, borderline translucent, and if Jakes wasn’t mistaken, he was barely hanging on to consciousness at this point. 

But Jakes had to have faith in Morse. There was nothing else left. 

Blackwood dropped to his knees beside Morse, roughly shoving Jakes aside. He went sprawling, the pen almost falling from his sleeve, but he quickly realised that whatever Morse was doing- well, it was working. Jakes was at a good vantage point behind Blackwood, a good place to attack. 

But Blackwood still had the gun in his hand. 

“What about my son?” Blackwood asked earnestly, unable to resist the play Morse had made into his pressure point. “What about him?”

Morse let out a soft breath, his eyes fluttering shut. “His name…”

He looked so weak, so frail, and Jakes could only hope he was faking it to get Blackwood closer. 

“What?” Blackwood dropped the gun and grabbed Morse’s shirt collar, shaking him roughly, and Jakes almost charged him then and there for it. “What is his name?”

Morse opened his eyes and met Jakes, giving a slight nod. Jakes uncapped the pen. 

“Your son’s name is  _ Fred.”  _ Morse spat, and with that and threw his remaining bit of energy into twisting out of his grasp as Jakes lunged, jamming the pen into Blackwood’s neck just above his collarbone. 

The sharp metal tip broke through his skin easily, buried in his flesh like a bizarre knife. Blackwood’s scream sounded primal, like that of a wounded animal, and he grabbed for the pen just as Jakes reached for the gun. He wrenched the pen from his neck with a howl, red blood and blue ink mingling on his fingers, those dark eyes blown wide with shock, but he still managed to kick out at Jakes, catching him squarely in the chest and sending him back across the ground. 

Blackwood reached for the gun in his waistband but Jakes leapt onto him, wrestling it from his grasp. In their struggle, the weapon went flying, skittering across the floor and into a wall. Jakes snarled and struck at Blackwood’s throat, promptly eradicating the grin on his face. There was still the gun by Morse, laying just on the fringe of the small, steadily growing pool of blood that was beginning to stain the light stone. 

The prisoner stretched his arm out, shoving at Jakes with the other, but the sergeant was much quicker and snatched the gun from his grasp, his fingers scraping against the rough floor. Blackwood ended up kneeling above Jakes, but there was no victory in his potion. Jakes swung the gun and struck the side of his head hard and Blackwood slumped to the ground, dazed and bleeding. 

_ Well I’ll be damned, _ he thought drily.  _ Maybe the pen really is mightier than the sword.  _

Jakes kept the weapon trained on Blackwood as he rose, leaving the man unarmed and wounded. His finger curled lightly around the trigger as he stood above the man, a small, ugly voice in his head screaming at him to shoot Blackwood. He was vulnerable, trapped. 

_ How’s it feel now, you bastard?  _ Jakes felt his mouth curl into a sneer, trying not to find gratification in Blackwood’s state, but it was hard not to now that the tables had turned so sharply once again. 

Blackwood’s life was in his hands. 

_ ‘Your life in my hands once again.’  _ Blackwood had snarled at him not long ago. 

Jakes could see the cruel light in Blackwood’s eyes as he pressed a hand to his neck, stemming the slow flow of blood, his lips drawn back in a daring grin. 

He wanted Jakes to do it. Jakes wasn’t sure exactly how he knew, but he could see it. 

Blackwood wanted Jakes to be like  _ him.  _

_ Never.  _

“On your stomach, hands behind your back, John!” Jakes ordered, and as Blackwood struggled to comply, Jakes found the fallen handcuffs and secured them around his wrists, cinching them tight. 

Morse let out an audible sigh of relief, his breathing raspy and shallow. 

The sergeant made sure to keep his eye on Blackwood as he backed toward the phone, but he slumped in defeat, closing his eyes, head resting against the ground. Blackwood was smart enough to know when he was beat. 

“Sir?” Jakes said into the phone, and there was a sharp inhale from Thursday on the other end.

_ “Jakes? Is Morse-” _

“Blackwood shot him,” Jakes relayed in as calm a voice as he could muster. Each passing second he felt more and more frayed, slowly coming down from the adrenaline high and heading toward a crash. “In the side. I think he’ll be alright, but he needs an ambulance. The two guards are dead.”

Thursday sighed, and Jakes could almost see the old man’s shoulders falling in relief as he dragged a hand across his face.  _ “And Blackwood?” _

“He won’t be causing any more trouble for us.”

_ “I’m on my way.”  _

Jakes hung up the phone and stepped over Blackwood to reach the door, wrenching the chair out from under the handle and throwing it open so hard it slammed into the wall. Then, he turned back to Morse with a victorious grin, hoping to share in the revelry of their win, but Morse’s eyes were closed, his face still and expressionless. 

“Morse?”

No response.

“Morse.” Jakes said with more urgency and he rushed to his side, dropping to his knees and pulling Morse’s upper half into his lap, his fingers pressed against his neck in frantic search for a pulse. It was there, but it was weak and slow. Morse’s eyes fluttered feebly and he let out a soft groan. Conscious again, but barely.

Blackwood began chuckling, a low, quiet sound that gradually grew as he rolled onto his side and grinned wickedly at Jakes, his neck and jaw smeared with his own blood, those dark eyes foul and taunting. “You’d better hurry, Peter. Run, rabbit, run.”

Jakes didn’t even have it in him to tell Blackwood to shut up. He gathered Morse up into his arms, unnerved by how easy it was, and rushed them away as swiftly as he could, but Blackwood’s singing followed him out into the corridor, reaching his ears and filling his mind like poison. 

_ Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run! Bang, bang, bang, goes the farmer's gun. _

He ran.

\------

Morse wasn’t in surgery long. According to the doctors it had been a fairly clean shot, more of a flesh wound than anything since the bullet miraculously managed to miss any internal organs, but it was the blood loss that concerned them. Jakes had gotten Morse out in the nick of time. 

He had to scoff at that last statement. He hadn’t done anything but land them in worse trouble than they were in to begin with. It was  _ Morse  _ who got them out. Morse, who didn’t let his anger get the best of him, who somehow maintained a head much more level than Jakes even while bleeding out on the floor in a prison. 

Morse. It was always him with a trick up his sleeve, sometimes quite literally, if Jakes recalled the hectic fight with Blackwood after the crash correctly. Jakes was in dire need of shaking off the old habit of underestimating him. Especially after all of this. 

It must have been quite the sight in the corridor for Thursday to run into Jakes carrying an unconscious Morse in his arms, hands slick with blood, eyes wide with panic as they lowered Morse onto a gurney and the prison doctor worked to keep him stable until the ambulance arrived. Thursday looked devastated when he saw Morse the way he was and Jakes felt guilt stab him again. 

The steady drip of morphine was borderline hypnotic and Jakes found it easier to look at than Thursday’s face when the governor came to sit at Morse’s bedside with Jakes in the private room at Cowley General. It had been nearer to the prison than the Radcliffe, elsewise Jakes was sure that Dr. DeBryn would have joined them as well. He was almost glad for the lack of anyone else. Jakes didn’t want an audience there to witness his failures. Thursday’s presence was enough of that. 

Jakes braced himself for the diatribe as they sat on opposite sides of Morse’s bed, the sleeping constable forming a less than formidable barrier between them, copper hair falling messily over his brow, his thin chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths. Morse often went pale at the sight of blood and Jakes decided it was a relief that Morse was unconscious so he couldn’t see the bag of it hanging from the IV stand. Papercuts were bad enough, so it was good Morse didn’t have to look at the transfusion. A small mercy for the time being. 

“The doctors say he should recover soon.” Thursday said, his voice thick as he looked down at Morse with the kind of compassionate concern that Jakes imagined most parents were used to expressing. “It certainly helped that you tried to stop the bleeding.”

Jakes scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. “Helped. Sure. Right after I got him shot.”

“You’ll do yourself no good thinking like that, Jakes.” Thursday gave him a firm look. “You can’t blame yourself for Blackwood’s actions. You didn’t shoot Morse. Blackwood did. That’s what matters.”

“Yes, but if I hadn’t-”

“There’s no ‘if’s about it, that time is long past. I don’t blame you.”

“Morse might.” Jakes looked down at him. 

Thursday raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t insult him like that, sergeant. He’ll forgive you, so long as you forgive yourself. How long have you been sitting there?”

Jakes became acutely aware of the stiffness in his back from being the chair for too long and he shrugged, stretching carefully. “Not sure.”

“Go get yourself something to eat,” Thursday ordered gently with that same paternal chiding he so often directed to Morse. “Or at least a cuppa to tide you over for a bit. You look dead on your feet.”

It was more than his life to argue so he obediently got to his feet, casting one last glance at Morse before heading out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

The timing was either extremely poor or surprisingly impeccable because no more than a minute later, Morse began to shift under the blankets, his eyelids fluttering as he slowly surfaced from the haze of morphine. 

Thursday held his breath, watching Morse blink widely before settling back and attempting to turn onto his side. He let out a small cry of pain, eyes flying open, and Thursday was there in an instant, hands at his shoulders to position him onto his back, away from his injured side. 

“Easy does it, Morse,” Thursday didn’t let go until Morse went still, staring in blank confusion at the ceiling above him, eyes darting around and taking in his surroundings. He didn’t feel too guilty as he hit the button on the pump and a dose of morphine went down the line. Morse’s face still bore the slight tension from pain but after a few moments the morphine continued on its work and his features smoothed, calmed. “Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Morse said, his voice dry, and he swallowed thickly. He frowned as he took in the clear lines of tubing that trailed from his arms, averting his gaze once he reached the transfusion bag. “Blackwood?”

“Solitary confinement for a good while, I’d hope.” Thursday replied darkly. “I’m sorry to say he came out of all this unharmed for the most part.”

“You didn’t hit him with your car again, then?” Morse’s clear eyes shone with mirth, his lips quirking into a small smile. 

“If you’re quipping like that they ought to turn up your morphine some more,” the inspector chuckled, and Morse snorted lightly, settling back into silence as his eyelids drooped shut and he fought against them, trying to stay awake. “You had us worried. Sergeant Jakes, especially.”

Morse exhaled deeply through his nose, staring at the ceiling tiles. “It’s not his fault.”

“Glad to hear it, would you mind telling him for me? He doesn’t want to believe me.”

“Is he here?” Morse frowned, looking around like Jakes was hiding behind curtains or under a lampshade. 

“He’s stepped out for a moment, but he’s here, don’t you worry.” Thursday assured him.

The lad was silent and he nodded, turning back to the blank canvas above him. For a few moments they stayed like that, but there was something Thursday just needed to get out. 

“Why did you do that?” Thursday asked, staring down at Morse’s side as if he could see through the blankets and the bandages, down to the wound itself. 

Morse knit his brow together as he frowned again. “Do what, sir?”

“You told me not to do it.” he said roughly. “You told me not to make the trade.”

“I-”

“Morse, I don’t ever want you to give your life for mine, is that understood?” It was difficult to keep the tremor out of his voice but Thursday hoped he managed well enough. 

God help him, it looked like Morse was about to  _ argue-  _

Jakes took that moment to return to the room with two paper cups of tea in his hand, elbowing the door shut. “Sir, I got- Morse!”

He nearly dropped the cups as he froze, staring at Morse who was looking back at the sergeant with a puzzled expression, no doubt confused over his reaction. Jakes slowly made his way over, handing Thursday his tea and settling back into his chair on the other side of Morse who was tracking Jakes’ movements with his morphine clouded gaze. 

“It’s not your fault.” he said, but the words seemed to bounce right off Jakes’ armour.

“You don’t have to say that, Morse.” Jakes shook his head bitterly, clutching his tea. “I’d rather you didn’t lie.”

Morse looked vaguely affronted then huffed, indignant. “Fine, it’s your fault. But I forgive you anyway. How’s that for candour?”

Jakes blinked, surprised by the response, and Thursday was even slightly taken aback, moreso by humour than Jakes was. The sergeant looked at Morse strangely for a few moments then fell into quiet, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“You look terrible.” Morse finally said, breaking the tense silence.

Jakes snorted and raised an eyebrow, brought out of his mood by the jibe. “You’re one to talk, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Hard to sleep when your tie is being so loud.” Morse rolled his eyes and Jakes looked down at his tie, one that Thursday had to agree was slightly more on the gaudy side. The inspector chuckled and even Morse gave a little grin.  _ Checkmate.  _

Something as little as that and Jakes broke into a smile, put at ease by the gentle ribbing. Thursday could only hope that meant he’d accepted Morse’s forgiveness. For all their differences, sometimes it was difficult to tell his bagman and sergeant apart. Both were so hesitant to accept what they were offered, thinking themselves undeserving. 

As Morse lay there healing from his wounds, falling into small conversation with Jakes who continued to smile, Thursday sat back and observed, thinking that- just maybe- Jakes was beginning to heal a bit as well. 

One could certainly hope.

[Fin.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of this wild ride! I hope you all enjoyed this fic and aren't too upset that it wrapped up significantly quicker than my stories usually do. Chiaroscuro is about to end within the next few days as well, but that just opens the door for me to start churning out the next wave of fics so I hope you'll stick around to see those. It's going to be quite something- I hope.   
> Sending a massive thank you to all you lovely readers, I appreciate you all so much


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